


the rush of blood

by houndstooth



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Introspection, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, this is about a specific wol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25517782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houndstooth/pseuds/houndstooth
Summary: One after the other, he had cut them down — and it had been so boring. He had wanted a challenge. He had wanted to see them howl, desperate and violent. He had wanted them snapping at him like the cornered beasts they were.They had all disappointed him — even their coveted warrior.Especiallytheir coveted warrior.Where was the beast that had bested Baelsar? Slayed Nidhogg? Killed hundreds of the beastmen’s eikons, over and over and over again? He had strength and focus, more so than the rest that cowered behind him — but not enough.The hunter and the hunted.
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	the rush of blood

It is early, the thin, weak sunlight of the rising sun streaming through the windows of the room. The file that had been given him by one of Garlemald’s top informants sat unopened on the desk. That they had a file on the eikon-slayer was no surprise — he remained a threat to his father’s goal of subjugating Eorzea, of eradicating the primal threat through Garlean machinations than unadulatered strength. 

It was an order from his father, no doubt; he would not admit to the fear he felt towards the Eorzean that had bested his plans again and again. He felt it necessary that Zenos read up on the enemy in light of their recent focus on Ala Mhigo, as many had tried to face the Eorzea’s Champion and had lost their lives for it.

 _As they should_ , Zenos thinks to himself, striding over to the desk. They underestimated the violence within Eorzea’s seemingly peerless hero — the rush of blood that guided his weapon through flesh and bone with near ease. He had heard the stories, the whispers of the feats of this lone individual on the other side of the world. At first, they seemed baseless. Now, Zenos understood, those tales held a hint of truth. 

Something differentiated the Warrior of Light from their peers. Like him, he stood at the apex of the chain, looking down upon the weak and worthless. 

They _should_ perish by his hand; the hunter that failed to understand their prey was liable to getting maimed or killed for their arrogance. The Black Wolf and his pack had been the first.

They certainly would not be the last. 

Unless they adapted, unless they learned to thrive on the challenge that this warrior presented them, they would continue to be mowed down like the rest of their useless ilk. 

Zenos rests a hand on the file, a small grin lifting the corners of his lips. A crude yet recognizable drawing of the savage stared back at him. It is not the written contents of the file that intrigue him. Such static observations would serve him no purpose, could give him no pleasure. No, he found himself drawn to the portraits; three of them, spaced out in a way that documented the physical journey of the eikon-slayer from their defeat of Baelsar up to now.

The mind could conjure up endless fantasies from words — of what could be and what might happen — but nothing was so satisfying as facing the real thing. 

No, true exhilaration came from being on the ground, in the midst of battle. Steel singing through the air. The roar of blood in one’s ears as the sound of gunfire rained down from overhead. The drumming of one’s heart as death took the soldiers around them, their bodies falling one after the other, their blood running red and warm, the earth drinking deeply of it. 

The pure, heady feeling of power as one cut through the enemy with ease, the reality of death so much more cognizant. 

So long has he been chasing that high, that apex of the hunt when all that stood between your life or your death hung upon a single, thin thread. 

And finally, finally, he had found it in Eorzea’s champion.

The eikon-slayer had been nothing to pay attention to when he had first met him. Tendrils of black smoke had curled towards the star-filled sky, orange fires raging hot and snapping up the pitiful encampment the savages had erected as their base. He had descended upon them swiftly and indiscriminately, yearning to fight.

One after the other, he had cut them down — and it had been so boring. He had wanted a challenge. He had wanted to see them howl, desperate and violent. He had wanted them snapping at him like the cornered beasts they were. 

They had all disappointed him — even their coveted warrior.

 _Especially_ their coveted warrior.

Where was the beast that had bested Baelsar? Slayed Nidhogg? Killed hundreds of the beastmen’s eikons, over and over and over again? He had strength and focus, more so than the rest that cowered behind him — but not enough.

He wasn’t desperate enough. 

Perhaps pride had been his folly — as it often was — and thus, Zenos bested him easily.

 _Pathetic_ , he had called him, staring down at him from above, his blade dripping with his blood. Meager sport, barely enough to whet his appetite. It had left him frustrated, wanting. 

A land of savages, and _this_ is what they had to give him? 

As he had left, Zenos had felt the warrior’s eyes trained on the back of his head. He could not give chase. He wouldn’t, weak as he was. He knew of his kind; his concern for the others around him kept him still as the glow of healing magicks knitted their skin closed and mended their injuries. They would bid him to rest and heal, to focus on regrouping and rebuilding the little resistance they had. And the warrior would listen. They always did.

Yet no remedy existed for broken pride, for deep shame deeper than the wounds he’d given him. He would heel at his comrades’ feet and lick his wounds, and his hunger for revenge would fester until they next crossed swords. 

Still, he couldn't help but wonder. Had he turned back to look, would he had seen it? A glimpse of the beast he longed to face? The prey he wished to hunt till they both were struggling to breath, only able to stand because of the thunder of adrenaline in their veins, unable to focus on anything but the end of each other? 

Zenos flips the picture over to its blank side. The signature of the artist adorns the corner, the date it was made written neatly underneath it. The most recent one, he notes, flipping it back over to look at it again. Who had been able to get so close to him to capture the details so accurately? It was surprisingly true to the source. 

The cut of hard, pale white scales that lined his jaw and chin, the horns that curl forward from the sides of his head and thin into sharp pin pricks, the sides capped by metal ornaments. His expression is neutral, his eyes seemingly focused on something behind Zenos that only he could see.

And though it is a mere drawing, he can see it. Beneath his thick lashes, hidden in the muted charcoal gray of his eyes, was a sliver of the beast he’d hoped to find among the demure cattle of Gyr Abania and Doma.

(There are reports of unrest. The warrior and their allies are on the move, snaking their way through Doma. Yotsuyu does not request aid, but promises and promises the warrior will be delivered to him when they next meet in person.

 _Alive?_ he had prompted.

A pause. It says more than it needs to.

 _Alive_ , she affirms, the dark and displeased look that flashes in her eyes not escaping his notice.)

The next they had met, sheets of rain had been cascading from the darkened sky. Another miserable day, another miserable report from the Doman witch. 

Yotsuyu had been with him, trying to curry favor with her gift of the Ame-no-Habakiri for failing to have her brutish underling deliver the Warrior of Light to him. Zenos had long abandoned the idea that such a course would succeed. Yotsuyu and her dog would be no match for the eikon-slayer. 

He did not expect their attempts to bear fruit — but why not let them try? Perhaps something would come of it, of what little worth it may be. 

But it was failure upon failure upon failure from this woman; the time grew short, and his patience thin. A sword such as this would only tide him over for so long. There was little prey to test it on.

But a desperation to succeed, to keep the savages broken under her heel, would no doubt push the Witch of Doma over the edge. She would do _anything_ to show how she was of good use to him. 

So, he reasoned, it was only a matter of _when_ , not _if_ , such drastic measures would be taken and he hoped for her sake that he would not be disappointed by what she would give him.

(The news of her death and the fall of Dona Castle had come much much later. She had used her brute as fodder for the warrior, and he had been taken down with ease. He had expected nothing less.

He does not bother himself with taking Doma back.)

This time, only two had come to face him, the warrior being one of them. 

They had tried to take him by surprise, seeking to cut his head from his shoulders. Admirable in its simplicity, though useless in its execution. The small one — the same race of the warrior, he had noted — emulated the art of the Doman fighters who kept to the shadows. She was skilled, he would admit, but certainly not enough to best him. Incomparable, in his eyes, even to the Warrior of Light who had faced him in Gyr Abania that night. 

The eikon-slayer had risen quickly to take his accomplice’s place when Zenos had brusquely tossed her aside. 

Good. It would allow him to test the limits of his new blade on him, and he would have it no other way.

The warrior had thrown himself at him, hard and fast, cold purpose behind every unrelenting strike. His eyes had been near pinpricks, focused and beautiful in their intensity, infrequently illuminated by the bolts of lightning raining down from the heavy skies above.

Such difference from their first battle, Zenos had noticed. More vicious. More furious. Still so wonderfully resilient. Beneath his helmet, a smile broke out on his face as he parried and deflected his attacks. He had grown in the short time they had been apart. 

Still — _still_ — it wasn’t enough. 

He was starting to slip, his chest heaving from exertion. Dark patches of blood soaked through his armor, mixing with the mud at his feet. Zenos could see him struggling to keep himself oriented and on the defensive as he beared down upon him with no mercy, no change in pace. 

He landed a hit right in his chest, kicking him backwards into the cold mud. 

His comrade shouted something, her words snatched by the howling winds of the rainstorm. It mattered not what warning she might have yelled to her exhausted comrade, what curse she may have spit at Zenos himself as she lay powerless to stop him. His blood sang with excitement, with the thrill of a better battle than he had been given in such a long time. Would she regret having their trump card killed, their plans for a long awaited liberation fade alongside the light in the eikon-slayer’s eyes? 

A pity, almost. He had come to relish the little challenge the warrior had given him. 

Zenos raised the blade to strike the final blow, and —

The warrior’s eyes had snapped back up to meet his. They showed he was in pain but, oh, how _bright_ they were. It was a ferocity he had never been witness to before. Blood dropped from the side of his mouth, from the myriad of wounds he’s inflicted upon him. They ran rivulets down his body and mixed with the mud he knelt upon. He lifted a hand to wipe at the line of red running from his nose, lips curled into a defiant snarl, showing a peek of bloodied fangs. 

There was anger. So much _anger_ , rich and red and practically tangible, that it had given him true pause as he stared down at this creature before him. 

_Oh._

Now this — _this_ was the beginnings of a beast worthy of his blade. Unfettered, dangerous. It was beautiful in its simplicity, its desire to destroy. Zenos could see it in his mind, the true sight of the prey that howled and snapped within the prison of this warrior’s humanoid figure. It would come out, one way or another.

 _But not yet_ , he realizes. The warrior wasn’t completely there yet — but was so, so _close_. The shattered piece of his helmet lost amidst their struggle was enough proof of that. Those eyes were proof of that.

Another push. Another chase. It would find him then.

He had lowered his sword. He would not kill him today. 

Zenos had sent the warrior off with a promise writ in steel and blood and still broken pride, a language he knew only the other would be able to understand. They would meet again. 

( _Endure._

_Survive._

_Live._

Theirs is an existence of loneliness and experiences too easily finished to savor. The warrior has given him something he long thought he’d never have — reason.

A reason to wake up, a reason to deal with the boring reports and the useless conscripts and soldiers that answer to him, a reason to _be_.)

He sets the drawing aside and flips through the rest of the file with plain disinterest, the information inscribed upon the pages barely registering in his mind. The warrior would return to him, whether by the command of his weak superiors or on his own. He would come to him, lured by the intoxicating promise of battle high and blood frenzy. 

Teeth bared, claws sharp, ready to draw blood and feast on his flesh. 

A display of violence beyond mortal comprehension, beyond this lackluster stage they danced upon for the entertainment of the lesser masses they had the unfortunate obligation to be around. 

He exhales slowly as he thinks of it. It was exciting. Invigorating. His heart thrums in his chest. Even now, he knew he and his allies readied to end his reign of tyranny over Ala Mhigo, as they had done Doma. Not that he cared for the savages and their pitiful city-state, or for Garlemald and their quest of subjugation. 

Let them rot. Let it burn. 

No, all that mattered was their final confrontation — his blessing, given him by the gods, against his might, honed and polished for years. A hunt that, at last, would satisfy the ache he’d felt for such a long, long time. 

(And how glorious it will be, to bleed for one another.)

**Author's Note:**

> this is actually something i had started last year and found again and — surprisingly — still liked that i decided to look it over and polish it up. it’s been a while since i’ve played stormblood so any inaccuracies with regards to timeline are all my fault lol
> 
> thanks so much for reading!


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